


Fade

by thievinghippo



Series: Bethroot Cadash [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: In the absence of light, shadows thrive, so says the Chant. Hawke's lover comes to Skyhold with a request. Secrets are revealed and bonds are tested as the Inquisition sets off to rescue Hawke from the Fade.





	1. Master of Secrets

If there’s one thing Varric’s sick of, it’s being part of history.

Yet he can’t seem to escape the sense of history, of anticipation, of alacrity, that surrounds Skyhold. It’s in every brick and tapestry and stained glass window. It’s in the people, from the stable boys to the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle. He feels it seeping into his skin, into his bones, until flows through his veins like lyrium in stone.

Kirkwall felt the same way once, back when he and Hawke spent hours in The Hanged Man, planning their futures and, more importantly, their fortunes. Before Bartrand and that damned idol changed everything.

Before the Inquisitor asked Hawke to stay behind in the Fade.

His fingers immediately go to the silk sash at his waist, the one Hawke gave him as a gift years ago. Once upon a time, before she arrived at Kirkwall, she had been an apprentice to a weaver. Varric thinks about that a lot, how Hawke once was destined for an ordinary life chock-full of ordinary people. But then the Blight scarred Thedas, cracked it open and dug deep into it’s core, forcing ordinary people to become extraordinary.

“Damnit, Hawke,” Varric mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off a familiar headache. He’s standing near the stables of Skyhold, suddenly wishing for the weight of his crossbow on his back. More and more lately Varric finds himself in one-sided conversations, as if just talking enough, hoping enough, might be enough to bring Hawke back from the Fade.

More than a year has passed since that fateful day, since that day he wasn’t given the chance to say goodbye, and here he is, still talking to his dead best friend.

If he wanted, he’s sure he could find a story in that. But Varric never thought to be the protagonist of his tales, being more than content to be among the supporting cast, with the occasional foray into comic relief. Hell, he can’t even find the courage to be the leading man in his own love affair. So instead he watches and writes.

“Looks like another group of refugees coming in,” Rainier says, breaking Varric out of his stupor.

Rainier’s holding a pile of uncut logs, an ax hanging from his belt. Varric shakes his head in annoyance. Rainier is a large man and not a particularly graceful one outside the battlefield. The thought that he managed to sneak up on Varric pisses him off more than he cares to admit.

“We even have room for them all?”

Setting up the first log, Rainier says, “My lady will find room. She always does.”

As if personally finding room for each refugee is part of Cadash’s job description. The Herald is many things, but a delegator is not one of them. She shares that trait with Hawke.

_Hawke._

This time Varric’s sigh comes from deep from within his marrow. She’s everywhere today, in his thoughts, in the refugees, even the damn color of the trees remind him of her. Even Rainier makes him think of Hawke, the way the Herald stuck by him through all of his Blackwall bullshit. Hawke could never say no to Blondie, not from the day they met.

Varric switches his focus to the refugees. Just by looking at them, he can tell which families are incomplete. Siblings walking a shade too far away from each other, used to having someone standing between them. Wives carrying more than their share of a family’s belongings, wanting to spare the children, but having no one else to help with the burden.

And then he sees the man in the hood, clearly trying to blend in, but standing out all the more because of it. Skyhold guards usher the refugees out of the courtyard, but the hooded man stays behind.

“I don’t like the look of him,” Rainier says quietly. Varric recognizes that voice, one used to being on the run, seeing threats anywhere and everywhere. Fenris used to speak like that when they first met. Took years and Danarius’ death before he stopped.

“Same,” Varric says, crossing his arms over his chest.

The hooded man starts to walk, not back to the refugees, but towards Varric. He feels Rainier tense besides him, and Varric has to keep himself from reaching for the dagger in his boot. No need to make a scene, not when plenty of guards mill around, not to mention Rainier - who must have a good fifty pounds on the hooded man.

It takes only a dozen steps before the man stands before them. “Varric,” the man says, his voice full of broken glass.

Varric looks up and sees the face beneath the hood. He sees a full blond beard covering gaunt cheeks and eyes glowing blue in defiance. His heart breaks for Hawke’s sake before he gathers the pieces back together and buries them in the ground beneath his feet.

“Shit,” he says, already spinning lies and tales in his head to explain: to the Herald, to himself, to Hawke. Skyhold seems to be weighing down his shoulders and somehow Varric thinks before long, he’s going to be an unwilling part of history once again.

Justice has found him at last.

#

Bethroot shakes her left hand, ignoring the slight throb that never quite seems to disappear these days. She sits at a writing desk in Josephine’s office, swinging her legs back and forth, wishing she could be sitting at her dwarf-sized desk in her dwarf-sized chair in her quarters. But it’s the middle of the afternoon, and Bethroot refuses to make the trip up and down the stairs more than once a day.

She’s put off the letters in front of her for as long as she could. Letters thanking nobles across Southern Thedas for their time, their troops, their resources, and _especially_ their gold. With Corypheus defeated, nobles everywhere want their contribution to his downfall noticed. As if they were the ones who deserved celebration, instead of the good people of the Inquisition.

With a sigh, Bethroot dips her quill into the jar of ink and starts to write of _gratitude_ and _debt_ and _recognition_ , all while thinking of the changes at Skyhold. It was silly to think things would stay the same with Corypheus destroyed. Her Inner Circle had lives of their own before fate brought them all together. Naturally they would want to return to them with the threat gone.

Not everyone left as quickly as Solas, thank goodness. But Leliana works tirelessly to be ready to assume the mantle of The Divine. Dorian started his trek back to Tevinter last week. Sera only seems to pop in and out of Skyhold when she wants a good meal. And Thom…

Thom wants to leave as well.

She wishes this didn’t upset her so much. He’s not leaving her, not really. But Thom wants to find the people from his company and apologize face to face. Varric’s spy network - not Leliana’s, as Thom refuses to use Inquisition resources for such a personal matter - has worked tirelessly for weeks. Now that more than a dozen have been found, Thom wants to start the journey, one he must take alone.

Bethroot aches to go with him, so she can be some kind of support, but the reality is she can’t leave the Inquisition for months at a time. So instead she’ll be left behind, hoping and praying Thom will come back to her safely.

The door to Josephine’s office opens and Bethroot looks up eagerly, grateful for any sort of distraction. Varric, followed by Thom and a man in a hooded cloak, enters the room. She stands, wishing for the dagger that sits at her waist when she’s out in the field. Thanks to her smuggling days, Bethroot knows no good can come from subterfuge like this. Though the man stands between Varric and Thom, and she trusts them both. They wouldn’t bring this man before her without cause.

“Let me start by saying I had no idea he was on his way here, Inquisitor,” Varric says, holding out his hands. He looks up at the hooded man. “Blondie, take off the hood. You look ridiculous.”

The man pushes back the hook of his cloak, clearly expecting some sort of reaction. His eyes are strange, not human eyes from what Bethroot could see. She looks at Thom, trying to gain some measure of understanding, but his face is blank. She’s comforted by that, thinking he might be as clueless as she.

“And now our dramatic moment is ruined.” Varric chuckles while crossing his arms over his chest. “Cadash, if you were human, I guarantee you’d know who this man is,” he says with a sigh. “But you were smuggling lyrium when Anders, here, hit the big time. Bet you never even noticed the wanted posters.”

Now _that_ is a name she recognizes. “Anders? Kirkwall’s Anders?” Not to mention _Hawke’s_ Anders. A twinge of guilt settles onto her shoulders, thinking about Hawke, how Bethroot asked her to stay behind in the Fade. She wrote a letter to Anders, about a month after the battle of Adamant, letting him know how sorry she was. No response, of course, but she didn’t expect one.

“Kirkwall hasn’t been my home for some time,” Anders says. His voice sounds rusty, perhaps from disuse. “But, yes. That Anders.”

Bethroot takes a breath, wondering how she should play this. Does she acknowledge his loss? Demand to know why he’s here? Technically, Anders is still a wanted criminal. “I want your assurance you’re not here to harm the Inquisition,” she says after a moment’s silence.

“I’m not,” Anders says. “I’m here to talk about Hawke. You left her in the Fade.” Bethroot wants to fight against the accusation, but it’s the truth. “Why didn’t you go back and get her? Varric explained what happened. The Demon Army had been banished. You could have saved her.”

As Anders spoke, his voice seemed to change, become deeper, not quite his own, as his bright blue eyes flashed. “Calm down, Blondie,” Varric says softly. “We’re all friends here.”

“I tried,” Bethroot says, ignoring the slight plea in her voice. “Back at Adamant, once the rift was closed, I tried to open it back up. But I couldn’t. Solas - an elf we worked with - thought I needed heightened emotions. Apparently falling down to my death was good enough to open one at Adamant.”

“But you can open them now, can’t you?” Varric asks.

She nods, remembering the way power coursed through her body, straight to her mark, as she battled Corypheus. While she hasn’t actually opened any rifts since then, there’s no doubt in Bethroot’s mind that she could.

“Then why haven’t you checked on Hawke?” Anders asks.

The accusation lingers, and Bethroot looks down at the floor, ashamed. It hasn’t even crossed her mind once to open a rift and search for Hawke. She didn’t even think to search when Morrigan’s son opened the Eluvian to the Fade.

The easy excuse is she’s simply been too busy. Bethroot assumed once Corypheus was defeated she might get a break. How wrong she was. But that’s no reason not to attempt to do the right thing now.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, raising her chin, and looking Anders in the eyes. “I’ll open a rift so we can find Hawke. Whenever you want.”

“Thank you,” Anders says quietly, and it’s his voice again, not another’s. “From what I know of the Fade, it would be best to open the rift near the original.”

“Go to Adamant?” Thom asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s at least a ten day journey, there and back again.”

Anders seemed to have forgotten Thom was in the room, and looks at him with a wary expression on his face. “The Inquisitor can make it happen, if she wants.”

Which is true. Bethroot is the one who sets the schedule. And considering she’s made enough changes because of Thom - going to the Storm Coast when he asked and chasing him to Val Royeaux after he disappeared - she can grant Anders this one request. “Let me check with Josephine and Cullen, but we’ll set off as soon as we can.”

“Thank you,” Anders says, his shoulders slumping. “I know she might not be there, but if there’s _anyone_ who could survive the Fade this long, it’s Hawke.”

“If she’s there, we’ll find her, Blondie,” Varric says, and there’s a lightness in his voice that Bethroot’s glad to hear. “Come on, let’s find you a place to sleep. And somehow avoid Cassandra. She’ll flip her shit if she finds out you’re here.”

Once Varric and Anders leave the room, and the door closes safely behind them, Thom walks up to her, getting down on one knee. Bethroot lets him pull her into an embrace, taking comfort in the way his arms feel around her. Resting her cheek against his bearded one, she sees the grey which has started to show at his temples. A distinguished look, though Thom worries it makes him look old.

What if he had gotten his way after Val Royeaux? Thom hoped to disappear into the night, with no one in the Inquisition learning the truth about his past. Would she be like Anders, then? Hoping and clinging to any possibility that Thom might be alive somewhere? And being willing to risk everything to find him?

Somehow, Bethroot thinks as she lightly presses her lips against Thom’s, she knows she would.


	2. Augur of Mystery

“You cannot be serious.”

Leaning back on her heels, Bethroot takes a deep breath and readies her answer. Her relationship with Cassandra has improved a great deal in recent times, especially since Bethroot started going to Chantry services each week. But they are not what she would consider friends by any means. Treading carefully will be best. Bethroot doesn’t want to lose what ground they’ve made. “I wanted you to hear this from me,” she says carefully. “Anders is in Skyhold and we’ll be leaving for Adamant in two days. You’re welcome to come with, if you want.”

It took far less time for her advisors to approve the plan than Bethroot thought it would. Less than twenty-four hours after Anders arrived at Skyhold, the itinerary was set. Now she needs to decide who will take part on the journey. Knowing the admiration Cassandra has for Hawke, Bethroot wants to give the Seeker the chance to join them.

“Anders has run of the castle?” Cassandra asks with a hint of a sneer. “He could blow up Skyhold.”

“Leliana has agents trailing him, Cassandra,” Bethroot says, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. “And why would he blow up Skyhold? The Inquisition allied itself with the mages.”

Cassandra looks down at the blade she holds and Bethroot wonders what she’s thinking. They’re in the armory, and Bethroot can’t help but notice she’s holding a bar of Celestine Black, the whetstone Thom recommended all those month ago, back when he was known as Blackwall. Cassandra still wouldn’t spar with Thom, much to his disappointment, but would use his preferred whetstone. Bethroot wonders what that means.

“I appreciate you telling me yourself,” Cassandra says after a moment. “I don’t think I would be good company for this journey. You’ll have Rainier. You won’t need another warrior.”

“Alright,” Bethroot says. Best Cassandra didn’t join the party, to be honest. The tension between her and Thom and her and Anders might be too much to take. “I’ll see you at services tomorrow.”

With a nod, Bethroot leaves the armory. The sun’s high overhead and she feels a bit overdressed with her leather bodice. But there’s far too much to do to worry about clothes, not when all of hers is up in her quarters. She crosses the courtyard on the way to the stables. But once she gets to the bottom of the stairs, she’s confronted with not just one, but two angry mages.

“’Tis true?” Morrigan asks, a hand on her hip. “You plan to go into the Fade itself and no one thought to mention it to me?”

“You’re not the only mage in Skyhold,” Bethroot says.

“I am the only mage in Skyhold that has been in the Fade-”

“I’ve been in the Fade, too, Morrigan,” Anders says. “Maker, if I knew you’d get all bent out of shape, I would have never stopped by to ask you about Brosca.”

“I’m going with you-”

“No.”

Bethroot takes a step back as Anders’ presence seems to loom over them. His voice is no longer his own, his eyes no longer his own, and electricity dances over his skin. She heard from Varric what Anders’ transformations are truly like, she just never expected to see it herself. This is far different from when they met, when he only had bright blue eyes. The truth is, she’s a bit frightened, but takes a breath and stands her ground.

“You are the servant of Mythal,” Justice says, spreading his hands out wide. “She used Hawke to her own advantage. I will not risk her being there.”

Morrigan looks down at the ground, her hands tightly woven into fists. “Apparently Mother ruins everything,” she says quietly. “Fine. I will not accompany you. I wish you luck, traveling the Fade without a mage.”

With those words, Morrigan turns on her heel and walks up the stairs. Bethroot watches for a moment, before turning back to what appears to be only Anders, no trace of Justice. “What’s she talking about?” Bethroot asks. “You’re a mage.”

“I might not be, in the Fade,” Anders says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Justice is a warrior. If we physically step into the Fade, it might be Justice who fights by your side, not me. So in that regard, much as I hate to admit it, Morrigan is right. We should have a second mage, just in case.”

“And if it is Justice, he’ll be willing to help us?” Bethroot asks.

Anders nods. “He cares for Hawke as much as I do.”

“This is getting complicated,” Bethroot mutters. Solas is nowhere to be found and Dorian is halfway to Tevinter at this point. That only leaves Vivienne, and somehow she doubts the mage will want to help Anders. “Let me talk to Vivienne.”

#

“I’d be absolutely delighted to join you on the expedition.”

“Glad to hear it,” Bethroot says, sitting down on the chair across from Vivienne, who lounges comfortably on her chaise. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect you to want to go. Anti-mage rebellion and all.”

Vivienne smiles, one Bethroot has come to learn is a calculating one, and says, “My dear, you are offering me the chance to physically walk into the Fade. It would be ridiculous to decline because of one person.” She waves an elegant hand. “Besides, I trust myself to keep you safe in the Fade far more than that apostate.”

“Fair enough,” Bethroot says. “We’ll be leaving in two days. You’ll be ready?”

“Of course,” Vivienne says. “I do wish I could consult with Solas, though. For an apostate, he was surprisingly knowledgeable about the Fade. I still don’t understand why he left like he did. So many loose ends. He didn’t even finish the frescoes.”

Bethroot stands, trying her best not to look to the right and the main hall below. She’s never liked heights, even ones like this, where a solid stone railing separate her from the ground. “Thank you, Vivienne. It’ll be good to have you with us.”

“Of course, darling. Now if you’ll excuse me, there are several tomes I’d like to study before we depart.”

Bethroot takes the hint and walks into the library, glancing at Dorian’s empty chair. With a sigh, she heads down to the rotunda and stands in the doorway. Vivienne’s mention of the frescoes brought them to the forefront of her mind. They’re gorgeous, but the symbolism she doesn’t quite understand. Why so many images of wolves? She wishes she took the time to ask before Solas left.

Outside, it’s still warmer than it has right to be, being in the middle of the mountains. One more person to speak to, and then they’ll be set. Sera hasn’t been in Skyhold for more than a week, and Bethroot doesn’t want to ask Iron Bull, not after his reaction just from being at Adamant. That leaves one person.

“Cole,” Bethroot says, skipping down the steps from the Main Hall. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“And I’ve been hiding from you,” Cole says plainly. “I know what you want to ask. I can’t.”

That certainly doesn’t bode well. “How did you know?”

“Varric.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Bethroot says, “I see.” They already have more people going than they need, so Cole’s absence won’t be missed, but Bethroot hoped everyone from the Inquisition who crossed into the Fade before would go again. “Why can’t you?”

He fidgets with his hands when he answers. “That’s not _me._ Not anymore. You made a choice,” Cole says. “Choosing has consequences. I’m more human now, not a spirit. I can’t go back there. Not to the Fade.”

“No one is going to make you, Cole,” Bethroot says. “I promise.”

Cole relaxes immediately. “I like your promises. You keep them. Not like some.”

He wanders away, leaving Bethroot standing in the courtyard alone.

#

Chores finished, Rainier gives himself a minute to sit down and take the weight off of his feet. He’s worked non-stop since waking this morning, making sure things are in order for the journey ahead. Adamant, followed by the Fade, are the last places he wants to go, both fresh reminders of his deception, passing himself off as a Warden. If he lives to be a hundred, Rainier doesn’t think he’ll forget the way the Nightmare taunted him.

_Ah, there’s nothing like a Grey Warden. And you are_ nothing _like a Grey Warden._

A shiver travels down his spine just thinking about it. Now he’s willingly going to follow Bethroot in there again.

His stomach twists, thinking of Bethroot. He needs to tell her. Soon.

And because the Maker has a bloody horrible sense of humor sometimes, that’s when he spies her walking towards the stables. There’s no urgency to her walk, so Rainier leans back in his wooden chair, stretching out his legs, and watches the way Bethroot’s hips sway. She’s gained a bit of weight since Corypheus’ defeat, though he has as well, thanks to not running around in the field five days out of seven. Hopefully this trip will get him back into fighting shape.

Once she enters the barn, Rainier folds his hands over his belly. “Business or pleasure, my lady?” he asks.

Bethroot shakes her head as she walks up to him. “There’s no one around, Thom.”

“True.” Rainier nods, conceding the point, though he thought he saw Dennet out by the horses. But no one is within earshot, so he sits up and grabs Bethroot’s hand, pulling her up against him, so her back is flush with his chest. “So what will it be then, Bethy?” he whispers into her ear. “Business or pleasure?”

“It’s supposed to be business,” Bethroot says. Her voice sounds hoarse, and Rainier smiles into her hair, his job done.

“Business, then?” he says, dropping his hands from her hips. “I suppose pleasure will have to wait.”

She walks to his workbench, leaning back against it. “For a little while,” she says with a smirk, looking back at the bench.

The hint couldn’t be clearer. Rainier stands, rolling his shoulders as he does, and walks over to her. With a practiced move, he lifts Bethroot up so she sits on the workbench. They’re the same height when she sits up there and he decides to take advantage, leaning forward for a quick kiss.

When they part, Bethroot reaches out and starts to play with one of the buckles on his gambeson. “Five of us total. You, me, Varric, Anders, and Vivienne.”

Rainier furrows his brow. “Do we really need the lady Vivienne?” He’s tried damn hard to be civil, yet that woman always brings out the worst in him, parts of himself he’d rather not face right now.

“Apparently, we do,” Bethroot says. “Anders isn’t sure if he’ll be Anders or Justice when he’s in the Fade. And Justice is a warrior.”

“Better safe than sorry, I suppose,” Rainier says. He swallows, knowing this is the perfect time to discuss things with Bethroot. “I’ve been thinking, Bethy…” She lets go of the buckle at once, and places her hands under her thighs. From the look on her face, he thinks she has some idea of what he’s about to say. “If we’re going out west, it might make sense for me to leave for a bit once we’re out of the Fade. One of my men is staying in Val Foret.”

She nods, and for a moment Rainier wonders how he could possibly get off that easily, but then she looks up, her eyes bright. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Placing a gloved hand on her cheek, he says, “I have to.” It might seem pointless, asking forgiveness when none is deserved, but he _needs_ to. He doesn’t expect anyone to actually forgive him, but he needs to at least say the words.

“I just… What if someone is angry enough to try to kill you?” Bethroot says, grabbing the front of his gambeson with two small fists. “I don’t want to lose you over this.”

It’s something he’s given a great deal of thought about. “If I’m attacked, I’ll defend myself,” Rainier says softly. “I won’t set out to kill anyone, but I won’t let them kill me.”

“Alright,” Bethroot says, looking down at the ground, an air of defeat weighing down her shoulders. He hates the idea of making her unhappy, but his decision is made. “I’ll miss you.”

“We can write letters,” Rainier says, lifting her chin with the crook of his finger so they could look at each other. “I’ll try to let you know where I’m heading, and you can have a letter waiting for me. I’ll check with the postmaster in each city.”

“True,” she says, sliding her hands up his shoulders and around his neck. “It just won’t be the same.”

“I know,” he says, kissing her cheek. “But nothing ever is now, is it?”

 


	3. Appraiser of Slavery

The closer they are to Adamant, the more guilt settles in Varric’s stomach. Makes sense, right? He’s the one who introduced Hawke to Anders all those years ago. He’s the one who dragged her to the Inquisition when she rather would have been fighting on behalf of the mages. And he’s the damn one who never even thought to ask Cadash about opening a rift.

Hawke deserves better than his friendship.

The group stops at an Inquisition camp in the Western Approach. Tomorrow they’ll arrive at Adamant, and Varric will either see his friend or he won’t. Simple as that.

He takes a bit of hardtack, ignoring how it tastes like dust. Anders sits next to him at the fire, knees pulled up to his chest, staring at the flames. The whole camp is too damn quiet. Cadash and Rainier already went to their tent for the night. And Vivienne sits at the back of the wagon, legs crossed at the knee, maintaining her staff.

Even the Inquisition Guards aren’t talking. But maybe they’re talked out. He’s got to imagine it’s boring being assigned here. Without the threat of Venatori or Red Templars, all they have to worry about are beasts. Who wants to fight hyenas and phoenixes all day?

Far in the distance, Varric sees Griffon Wing Keep looming over the sands, and it makes him think. “Hey, Blondie, you hear that fake Calling last year?” Varric tried to ask Hawke about it, but she didn’t want to discuss the matter. Understandable, considering both her brother and her lover are Wardens. Just another reason why Varric knew the choice to stay behind in the Fade was _hers,_ not Cadash’s. Hawke would have risked anything if it would save Anders or Carver.

Anders nods, short and curt, clearly not wanting to talk. Well, too damn bad, Varric decides. The sound of sand in the wind is starting to annoy him and he would much rather hear the sound of his own voice, something that’s yet to get old, even after forty-three years. Shit, how is he even alive after all this time?

“But it’s gone now, right?” Varric asks. “Every Warden I talked to at Skyhold said the Calling stopped once that Nightmare was banished.”

“You talk to a lot of Wardens about it?” Anders asks. Varric chuckles, pleased to hear a hint of curiosity in Anders’ voice.

“After Adamant? Absolutely. See,” Varric says, scooting closer to Anders and holding out a hand, “I had such big plans back then. The romance of the decade between the Inquisitor and the doomed Grey Warden. Then Hero has to bollocks it all up by not being a damn Warden after all.”

“I hear the actual tale is fairly compelling as well,” Anders says with a cough. “Seems to have all the flair and drama you’d want in a tale.”

Varric leans back, ready to delve into a bit of storytelling. He’s got the opening of the romance all planned, but wouldn’t mind a second opinion. But as he’s about to start, he realizes Anders never actually answered the question. Misdirection at its finest. After all these years, Anders _knows_ Varric will happily go off on any tangent about his stories. And Varric fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

“Shit,” Varric says softly. “You’re still hearing it.” Anders’ silence gives Varric the only answer he needs. “How long do you have?”

“I’ve no idea,” Anders says, and the resignation in his voice makes Varric close his eyes. “I’ve been a Warden for almost fifteen years. The fake Calling started and the drums never left. I hear them even now.”

“Then what is all of this for, Blondie?” Varric asks, shaking his head. “We’re about to march through the fucking Fade to try to rescue Hawke. What if by some miracle, we do? Then you’re going to go off to the Deep Roads, snuff it, and leave her behind?”

The moment the words cross his lips, he thinks he might have gone too far. A familiar crackle of energy surrounds Anders and Varric sees the mage’s eyes glow blue. But it’s Anders’ voice when he speaks. “I don’t have much time left, Varric. Any I do have I want to spend with Hawke. Then she can move on with her life.”

“Guess we’ll have one hell of a party for you down at the Deep Roads when it’s time,” Varric says, wondering how much more weight Hawke’s shoulders can take before they can’t take any more.

“I only joined the Wardens so I wouldn’t have to go back to the Circle. I’m not going to pretend to truly be one at the end. There will be no Deep Roads for me. I’ll know when it’s time,” Anders says.

The certainty in Anders’ voice sends a shiver of fear down Varric’s spine. Whenever that time is, Varric will just have to make sure he’s around to pick up the pieces.

#

Adamant.

Bethroot rests her elbow on the side of the wagon, trying to get a better view. The place is rubble now. The Chargers did good work. Hard to believe this is the same place where a mighty fortress once stood.

Not all Bethroot’s memories of Adamant are horrible. This is the place where she first told Thom she loved him, and he said the same in return. Of course, she thought him a Warden, then. His name might have changed since Adamant, but her love for him certainly has not.

“How are we ever going to find anything?” Bethroot asks, not really expecting an answer.

The bright sun overhead seemed to mock the piles of rubble that stand before the Abyssal Rift. Huge piles of stone and iron are scattered everywhere. To the west, Bethroot recognizes the field where the Inquisition camped the night after the battle. To her relief, she sees no sign of the large funeral pyre she lit, sending good Inquisition soldiers to the Maker’s side. Even if their ashes are scattered to the wind, she still remembers _exactly_ where on that field she stood, torch in hand.

“Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky,” Bethroot whispers to herself. “Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven.”

The Canticle of Trials is Thom’s favorite Chant of Light, and quickly has become hers as well. Of course, when she presided over the pyre almost a year ago, Bethroot believed in the Stone, not the Maker. But she has no doubt He understood her intentions, clumsy as they were.

“Would have liked to have seen Adamant in its glory,” Thom says gruffly. “Heard a bit from Warden Blackwall, about what it must have been like. And now it’s nothing.”

“Looks like scavengers have been through everything,” Varric says. “Some of those stone piles look far too neat.”

Aldrien, the elven wagon driver, looks over his shoulder. “Where should I stop?”

“We may need to stay overnight, my dear,” Vivienne says. “Best to find a place to set up camp.”

Bethroot nods; Vivinne’s right, they have no idea how long they might be. “Somewhere in the field,” she says, grabbing her pack and placing it in her lap.

A few minutes later, Bethroot puts her hand in Thom’s as he helps her out of the wagon. A makeshift camp is set up quickly: tents for her and Thom, Varric and Anders, Vivienne and a soldier, and the driver with another guard.

The soldiers put together a quick meal of salted beef and nuts. No one wants to eat a great deal before going into the Fade. “Do you remember if you were hungry at all, when we were there?” Bethroot asks Thom. She doesn’t remember herself. So much is blurry from her time there.

“Time seemed to stand still,” Thom says, his hand fidgeting. Bethroot sighs inwardly. He only fidgets like that when he’s nervous. “I don’t remember needing to eat or piss or anything like that.”

“Charming details,” Vivienne says. “I suppose that’s better than nothing, though.”

Bethroot puts some extra hardtack in her pack, just in case. She wonders if she should ask if anyone would like one last gear check, but at this point, she’s stalling, and everyone would know it. “Let’s go, then.” She turns to Aldrien and the Inquisition soldiers. “Give us three days. If we’re not back by then, go to Griffon Wing Keep, and have a raven sent to Skyhold.”

“What will happen then?” Aldrien asks, leaning against the wagon like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Perhaps he doesn’t. He’s seen them off on most of their adventures over the past two years. This might just be more of the same to him.

“I’ve no idea,” Bethroot says honestly. “They’d have to find another way into the Fade if they want to try a rescue. Maybe Morrigan’s son can figure out a way. He’s done it before.”

Thom’s hand on her shoulder calms her. She puts her own hand on top of his, just for a moment, long enough to feel centered. Then with a brisk nod, Bethroot starts walking towards the Abyssal Ridge.

They’re forced to climb over rubble and stone and more than once Bethroot needs to put out a hand to steady herself. Each step seems to remind her of a different battle: storming up to the ramparts, trying to take cover from the dragon, meeting up with Hawke to try to stop the ritual.

“Do you remember where that bridge was?” Bethroot asks. She’s turned around without any points of reference to guide her.

Thom stops for a moment, looking left and right. “This way,” he says, taking them to the west. Fifty paces later, he stops. “I’m almost certain this is where it was.”

Her left hand curls into a fist, almost of it’s own accord. “Could I have some room?” Bethroot asks.

She closes her eyes, feeling the power of the Fade within her, such a strange sensation. Dwarves shouldn’t have this power, and yet here she is, lifting her hand out in front of her, the mark glowing, strong enough to shine through her leather gloves. There’s a twinge of pain, something she didn’t feel last time. Or maybe she did, and was so focused on defeating Corypheus, she never noticed. Bethroot certainly notices now, needing to clench her teeth to keep from crying out.

The Mark reaches and stretches towards the Fade, and Bethroot waits with the patience of an archer, looking for the right opening. There! She clenches her hand with a snap and a moment later, a rift appears. “Let’s go,” she says at once. “I don’t know how long it will stay open.”

Anders walks through first, followed by Varric and Vivienne. Thom gives Bethroot a searching look before stepping inside as well. Then, taking a deep breath, Bethroot walks back into the Fade.

#

_Hawke always knew she’d be forgotten in the end._

_She doesn’t mind, oh not at all. It’s the life she was meant to have. A life of keeping all signs of magic locked away. A life of scurrying in the other direction when a Templar crossed her path. A life of wondering how thing would be different if her fingertips couldn’t reach the Fade._

_There are times she misses that life, when she could spend time at her spinning wheel or her loom, making yarn and cloth. She never could find the time in Kirkwall, and once the expedition took place, it was so much easier buying clothes instead of making them._

_Kirkwall…_

_Do they wonder where their Champion is, after all this time? Do any of them remember the good she tried to do? Or do they only think of the ruin and destruction she caused? Her lover might have been the one to destroy the Chantry (oh how she misses Anders and Justice…) but she supported him every step of the way. And because they ran (oh how fast they ran…) the Prince of Starkhaven sought his own form of justice in the city they all once called home._

_And the cycle of vengeance continues._

_It’s almost a relief to be away from the responsibility and the burden and the blame. Here she can explore, she can study, she can_ learn. _Things she never had the time to do. There is freedom here._

_Freedom she might be willing to give up in a heartbeat just for someone to talk to._


	4. The Unreachable City

He is _home._

For so long, Justice traveled to the Fade only through rituals or Anders’ dreams. But he stands here now, with nothing weighing him down, no anchor to the mortal world. It is freeing.

He closes his eyes and _feels_ the Fade. It seeps into his pores, becomes a part of him, and through the Fade, he can sense his Hawke. She is waiting and Justice will find her and bring her home to Anders. He will set her free from this cage.

There is a familiar weight in his hand. Looking down, he sees that Anders’ theory was correct. Instead of patched-up robes, Justice wears polished armor and carries a sword and shield. He is ready to charge ahead, but part of Anders, the part that prefers working with others, tells him to stay. The others helped Justice return to the Fade, they can help him find Hawke.

“Everyone in one piece?” It is the lady dwarf who speaks first. She talks to the group, but she only has eyes for the other warrior. Justice looks at the dwarf, at her left hand. The mark on her hand is reaching for something, but he knows not what. But he feels drawn to it somehow. The mark belongs to the Fade, of that he has no doubt. “No one is upside down or sideways this time, at least.”

“Forgot how sluggish this place makes me feel,” the other warrior, Rainier, says, as he rolls his shoulders. “Everything’s just a bit off. Might take everyone a fight or two to adjust.”

The mage’s eyes roam the Fade around them as she whispers, “This is nothing like I imagined.”

“Justice?” Varric asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Okay, last time we caroused in the Fade you looked like Anders and were blue. What gives?”

“The time you betrayed Hawke, you mean?” Justice asks, anger slithering through his blood. The part of him that is Vengeance wants to remind the dwarf in vivid detail just how he turned his back on his friend. But he won’t. Hawke must be his focus.

Varric flinches, but Justice pays him no heed. Let the dwarf remember. “Yeah, yeah, the time demons tricked me in the Fade, which has never happened before in the history of Thedas.”

Gripping the hilt of his sword, Justice says, “This is the form Hawke prefers when we are in the Fade together. When I first joined the mortal world, this is the body I inhabited. Kristoff.”

“You meet Hawke often in the Fade?” the mage asks. Justice looks at her sharply. She is calculating _something_. Perhaps she is no better than Flemeth’s daughter in that regard.

“Not since she was left behind-”

“Chose to stay behind to save Alistair’s and my life,” the Inquisitor says. There is fire in her voice. Good. They can use that determination. “Don’t belittle her sacrifice.” Justice bows his head, acknowledging the dwarf’s words. She sighs and shakes out her hand. “Let’s find the exit. That’s where we can start."

The Inquisitor and the warrior lead the way and Justice can only follow. The mage walks next to him. “I was not aware that a maleficar and a mage could meet in the Fade,” she says.

“A maleficar must sleep, just as mortals do,” Justice says. “While Anders slept, I was free to roam the Fade. But I was not physically there, not like this.” Justice sees a circle of rings and pillars sprouting from the ground. There is energy here. A battle. Hawke fought here once. Her particular sense of magic - of primal and elemental magic - permeates into his skin. Even the slight echo reminds him how much he misses his Hawke. “We knew something happened to Hawke, even before we received Varric’s letter.”

The Inquisitor’s hand is glowing. “This is it,” she says. “This is where the Rift opened to let us out.”

“Suppose shouting her name would bring down every form of demon on top of us,” the warrior says gruffly.

The warrior’s words wake something in Justice. Where are the demons? Where are the spirits? The group should not be alone right now. Justice closes his eyes and focuses, reaching out to get a better sense of this area of the Fade. “She is not here,” he says at last. “She is somewhere else.”

“Well that’s helpful,” the Inquisitor says with a sigh. “I suppose we can retrace our steps-”

“The journal.” The warrior places his hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder, a gesture so familiar to Justice it _hurts._ How many times had he placed his hand on Hawke’s shoulder to keep her from flying off, to keep her with him when they shared stolen moments in the Fade? “My lady, don’t you remember? Hawke found that journal a ways back. Didn’t she say she thought it belonged to Anders?”

Hope is a luxury Justice rarely allows himself. But he feels it swimming in his stomach, uncomfortable yet calming at the same time. The contradiction is not something he appreciates. “Where was this found?” Justice asks. It would be just like his Hawke to find something familiar to anchor herself. “Take us there.”

The Inquisitor looks around, biting her lower lip. “This way,” she says after a moment.

The group walks in silence, down stone stairs and along trodden paths. “Almost there,” she says as they turn yet another corner.

But then Justice senses something, a demon perhaps, lurking nearby. The Inquisitor takes her bow off her back and nocks an arrow; she must sense it too, being as closely tied to the Fade as she is.

“Pride demon,” she whispers.

Of course it is pride. It is his ultimate failing, after all. Believing that he and Anders could save the mages single-handedly, that they knew better than those mages still in the Circle, while Anders could wander around Kirkwall because of his friendship with Hawke. Even after the destruction of the Chantry, their steadfast belief that given the chance they would do the very same thing again, damn the consequences.

The warrior runs out first, sword and shield in hand. A barrier encloses Justice, but it is not Hawke’s familiar one. It feels foreign, unnatural, and Justice is not sure how long it will last. But it matters not, because the demon is there, and all they can do is fight.

#

As if this day could get any worse.

Varric loads his crossbow, his blood already running faster through his veins as he readies himself for the battle ahead. One lowly Pride demon isn’t too bad, not really. Much better than those damn Fear demons they had to fight back in the Frostback Basin.

Getting down on one knee - he really is getting too fucking old for this - Varric lines up the shot. Once he lets the bolt loose, Bianca immediately reloads. Bethroot stands next to him, perched up on a rock, taking advantage of the high ground. Vivienne fights next to Justice and Rainier, using that crazy spirit blade of hers. With two warriors, she’ll concentrate on keeping the front line protected, since they’ll be taking the worst of the hits.

Which is why Varric stops fighting when a barrier surrounds him. Not Vivienne’s, which always seemed cold and unfeeling. This is warmth and protection, a barrier he hasn’t felt since the day Anders blew up the Chantry.

“Hawke!”

Varric can barely believe his eyes, but there she stands, staff in hand, bringing down a stonefist on the demon. She moves just like he remembers, not with the easy grace of Anders or the short, quick movements of Merrill. But with a rhythm all her own, as if no one else fights besides her at that moment.

He’s never seen anything as beautiful in his entire life.

The next thing he knows, the Pride demon falls. Without thinking, Varric runs to Hawke, trying to convince himself that she’s real, not just a figment of his imagination. He’s got one of the better minds out there, but even this seems like it’s beyond him.

“Varric,” Hawke says, her smile not quite right, perhaps from disuse. She gets on one knee and they hug, and Varric almost wants to weep in relief. She’s here and she’s _Hawke._ But she’s not still, and as she stands, Varric sees her eyes darting around, and he already knows who she’s looking for.

“Hawke,” Justice says. There’s a quietness in the spirit’s voice that Varric’s never heard before. And suddenly Varric knows, he _knows,_ that the jokes and the rumors he and Isabela used to laugh about, that the duo of Anders and Hawke might actually be a trio, were absolutely true. Hawke’s looking at Justice just like she looks at Blondie and Varric’s heart breaks for her. What chance does she ever have of a normal life with both Anders and Justice?

Everyone is quiet as Justice and Hawke simply look at each other. Varric holds back the jokes and the wisecracks he desperately wants to make to break the tension.

Hawke moves first, her arms wide. “You came back for me.” But then she walks right through Justice. Varric almost has to look away at the pain and disappointment on Hawke’s face. She reaches out with her hand at the same time Justice does. They’re hands pass through each other. “I don’t understand.” Hawke grips Varric’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt. “Why can’t I…”

“We can figure it out once we get out of here, Hawke,” Varric says, looking around, wanting to make sure no surprises waited for them. The last thing they need is another damn demon interrupting their reunion.

“My dear, may I have a look at you?” Vivienne says, her voice soft. That alone is enough to set Varric’s teeth on edge. Vivienne doesn’t do _soft._ She circles around Hawke before standing in front of her, a hand on her hip. “I didn’t realize you also were a maleficar.”

Hawke’s eyes narrow. “I’ve only used blood magic once in my life. It wasn’t by choice.”

“I mean you’re an abomination,” Vivienne says calmly. “There is no spirit within you now, but there was once, was there not?”

_Shit._ Varric remembers that night, years ago, when they saved Blondie in the tunnels of Dark Town. He died, just for a second, before Merrill saved him. And during those moments between life and death, Justice took over Hawke.

With a nod, Hawke crosses her arms over her chest. Varric looks at his friend more closely and sees the differences a year in the Fade have caused. She’s wearing the same armor, her hair is in the same style, but there’s a softness, almost a haziness around her, something he’d never associate with Hawke. Not since taking up with Anders, at least. Blondie’s rebellion stole any chance at that.

“You already know what I’m going to say,” Vivienne says, not unkindly.

Hawke closes her eyes. “I had hoped… I so desperately hoped…”

“Speak plain,” Justice all but orders as he takes a step closer to Hawke, so that they’re almost touching.

“I can’t leave this place,” Hawke says, and Varric feels his world break apart again. “If I do, I’ll die.”

Behind him, Bethroot gasps, reminding him that he wasn’t the only one standing around in the Fade right now. And he guesses, thanks to the anchor, she’s a magnet for demons. The sooner they leave, the better, but how can he leave Hawke like this? Alone? He wouldn’t even subject the worst antagonist in one of his novels to that fate.

“Shit, are you serious?” Varric asks, reaching back to press his fingers against his crossbow, needing the solidness to anchor him. “How do you know? How can you be sure?”

“Of course I’m not sure, Varric,” Hawke says softly. “How can anyone be sure of anything? But I just _know._ I will never leave this place.”

“We will find a way,” Justice says. “We will leave the Fade and we will come back for you. You have my word, Hawke.”

She smiles bravely, because that’s what Hawke fucking does, takes the weight of the world, and heaves it onto her own shoulders. “Give Anders my love,” she says softly.

“He knows,” Justice says, raising his hands and placing them on either side of Hawke’s face, touching but not touching. “We love you, Hawke.”

Varric senses a change in the air and even without magic, he can sense demons nearby. “I hate to break this up, but the sooner we leave, the sooner we can come back and get you the hell out of here.”

Hawke leans on her staff. “Be safe,” she says brightly and Varric can only shake his head. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

The rest of the group starts to walk, but Varric stays behind, just for a moment. Hawke takes his hand. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ve missed you, Varric.”

“Me, too,” Varric says, squeezing her hand. And even though she’s his best friend, someone he loves more than his own life, he can’t think of anything more to say. So with a nod, he follows the group, and doesn’t look back as he hears Hawke let out a sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke become an abomination in my fic _A Voice of Bells and Thunder._ You can read it [here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2187732/chapters/4790046)


	5. High Priest of Beauty

It’s the middle of night when they walk back out through the rift.

Bethroot’s exhausted and her hand simply won’t stop _hurting._ But they’ve done what they came here for, even if the results aren’t what they expected. Poor Hawke, stuck in the Fade… Until when? Eternity? Until she’s killed by a demon? Until she becomes a wraith herself? When Bethroot believed in the Stone, that would have been her fate, becoming a wraith or a shade upon her death, never free to return to the Stone. It’s what her mother believed.

She doesn’t like to think about that.

As they start the trek back to the camp, Bethroot slips her unmarked hand into Thom’s. She looks over at Anders, and he’s no longer Justice, but the mage, in his mantle of feathers with a staff on his back. She can’t even imagine living like that, having another person so entwined in body, that you could be two people at once.

The guard on watch stirs when he sees them from afar, and Bethroot’s grateful that there’s a warm fire and hopefully a bit of food waiting for them. Her stomach is grumbling, yet she couldn’t remember being hungry in the Fade. Things really must work differently there.

They’re offered hardtack when they make it back to the camp. Not her first choice, but dusters can’t be choosers, as the old saying goes.

“If you’ll pardon me, my dear, I must grab my parchment and quill. I need to write down everything I remember,” Vivienne says, heading to her tent.

“So,” Varric asks, unstrapping his crossbow from his back, “do you have any ideas, Blondie?”

Anders stares down at the ground, and Bethroot’s heart clenches. She knows what it’s like to be separated from the person you love, without hope of them ever coming back into your life, and she wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But at least when Thom was in a prison cell in Orlais, he was _alive._ He had a physical, corporeal form. And eventually, thanks to the machinations of the Inquisition, he left a free man. Hawke will never escape the bars of her cage.

“It’s late,” Anders says, his voice rough. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Bethroot nods. “If that’s what you’d like-”

“It is,” he says, interrupting.

She blinks, before placing the hardtack in the pocket of her leather armor. “Then let’s all get some sleep.”

Without another word, she follows Thom to the makeshift weapons rack, carefully putting away her bow and quiver. Her face scrunches up in annoyance as she looks at her quiver; she’ll need to notch some arrows when they get back to Skyhold. She _hates_ notching arrows.

Weapons stowed safely away, Bethroot and Thom head to their tent. He grabs her hand, her marked hand, a bit too roughly, and Bethroot has to bite her lip to keep from crying out in pain. He holds open the flap to their tent and Bethroot walks inside. Even after two years, she’s slightly amused by just how big a human tent is. Back with the Carta, she had a proper-sized dwarven tent, not nearly as large as this. But Thom certainly wouldn’t fit in one of those.

Bethroot takes off her leather coat, along with the thin chain mail she wears underneath. Already she feels lighter and is sure sleep will come easily tonight. Being in camp, she takes off no other clothes, except her thick leather gloves, leaving on the thin linen gloves underneath. Next to her, Thom’s already removed his chest piece, rolling his shoulders before taking off his gauntlets and vambraces.

He beats her to the bedroll, laying on his side, head resting on his arm. “It’s hurting you, isn’t it?” Thom asks quietly. “That why you’re not taking off your gloves?”

There’s no sense in lying. Bethroot sits cross-legged on her bedroll. “Yes,” she says. “More than usual.”

“Because of opening the rift, you think?” he asks, placing a hand on her thigh. She doesn’t answer, not sure how to describe the sensation. But then he sighs, adding, “It’s been getting worse.” The words are so matter-of-fact that Bethroot nods without even thinking. Thom squeezes her thigh. “Come to think of it, Bethy, I haven’t seen you without those gloves since we left Skyhold.”

Which is true. They’ve only once had sex since the journey began - early one morning, when they both weren’t quite awake, Thom taking his time behind her - and she’s not needed to take off the linen gloves. “You don’t need to see this, Thom,” Bethroot says, her marked hand curling in on itself, pain shooting through her fingers. “You certainly don’t want to be touched by this.”

Thom reaches out and takes her hand, so carefully it reminds her of the way he handles a whittling knife, with reverence. She holds her breath as he removes the linen glove, revealing the blistered skin on the palm of her hand. Without breaking eye contact, he brings her palm to his lips. Bethroot knows it’s meant to be a sentimental gesture, but his mustache and beard tickles her skin, causing a laugh to escape her lips.

“Tickles,” she says as way of an apology, sliding her free hand up his arm.

“Excuses,” he mutters. Bethroot lets out another laugh as he pulls her on top of him, his kisses almost enough to make her forget the pain in her hand.

Almost.

#

The next morning is unbearably hot, even before the sun rises above the mountain line. Rainier rolls his shoulders as he eats his breakfast, a couple of slices of dried ham with bread that will be stale tomorrow, and waits for everyone to leave their tents. Across from him sits Anders, who refused the guards’ offer of breakfast completely.

Bethroot leaves the tent, rubbing her eyes as she does. His lady is not a morning person, and even after two years of getting up with the sun, she still hates it. Aldrien hands her a tin cup full of coffee after she’s not even taken two steps. The space next to Rainier is free and he’s not surprised when she sits down close, a bump of her shoulder her only greeting.

Breakfast is always a silent affair, thanks to Bethroot, and as Vivienne and Varric come out of their respective tents, neither of them say a word while they help themselves to food. It’s a habit they’ve all grown into after two years of working together.

Anders, however, even after traveling with them for five days, doesn’t pay attention to the routine. “Justice and I need to be separated,” he says quietly.

Spirits and magic is something Rainier’s never really understood. Respects it, yes. But it’s respect mingled with a healthy dose of fear and awe. His knowledge goes as far as how it can help him in battle, how long a barrier lasts or how he’s invigorated when someone casts a resurgence spell. Anything beyond that, he’ll leave to the mages.

“Is that even possible after so long a time?” Vivienne asks, a brow arched. “And even if it is, is it wise?”

“I believe so,” Anders says, running his hand through his hair. The man is a ball of nervous energy, putting Rainier on edge just looking at him. “Years ago, I started researching if it were possible. I was… sidetracked, then. But I remember enough. There’s a ritual. I won’t live through the separation, but Justice should, and that’s what matters.”

Bethroot holds her cup of coffee tightly in both hands, more alert than Rainier’s ever seen her in the morning. “You want to die?”

“No,” Anders says at once as he stares into the breakfast fire. “But I will anyway, thanks to the Blight in my blood, and if I’m going to die, I want to make sure Hawke isn’t alone.”

Rainier never thought he might have anything in common with an apostate, least of all one as infamous as Anders. Yet the similarities are there. In Orlais, he’s just as infamous as the mage sitting across from. Word’s traveled that people will say they’re ‘pulling a Rainier’ if they try to get out of a punishment. And he knows far too well being willing to die for the woman you love.

“Now I know you’ve really lost it, Blondie,” Varric says, resting his forearms on his knees as he speaks. “If you’re dead, what’s the point? Hawke will still be in the Fade. And you’ll be dead.”

“Have you given thought that it might be possible to remove Hawke from the Fade?” Vivienne asks and Rainier’s not surprised to hear that calculated tone of hers. “The Inquisition has resources. There might be a spell or some form of magic-”

Anders stands up, his eyes bright blue. “There is no _time.”_

“You’re not even willing to try?” Vivienne says with a sniff, as she faces him. “Typical. Is that all you know how to do, then? Make rash decisions without thinking through the consequences first?”

The air in the camp changed at once. Anders is now Justice, looming larger than life. Rainier rises to his feet, wishing for his shield at the other side of the camp, so that he can stand between the two mages, if needed.

“You know nothing of Kirkwall's suffering,” Anders says, his voice deep.

Rainier’s ready to take a step towards the two, but Bethroot beats him to it. “This _isn’t_ the time to talk about it,” Bethroot says firmly, planting herself between the mages. She should look ridiculous, a dwarf separating two human mages. But Bethroot has a power all her own. Maker, he loves this woman.

“Agreed,” Vivienne says at once, sitting back down on a log in front of the fire.

Anders steps back and take a breath. Rainier stays ready, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. But any trace of Justice quickly disappears from the mage.

“If Justice is in the Fade when Anders dies, the demon will be free to roam,” Vivienne says, crossing her legs at the ankle, looking every bit a high born noble even surrounded by the desert. “I assume the ritual you mean is Dalish in origin?”

Anders blinks, probably as surprised by the change in Vivienne’s temperament as Rainier. “It is, yes. You’ve heard of it?”

Vivienne waves her hand dismissively. “You needn’t look so surprised. Above all else, I consider myself a scholar. There were Keepers at Skyhold, and before he left without so much as a goodbye, Solas was a font of information. I simply asked them questions.”

Slapping his hands on his thighs, Varric stands and starts to pace. “Are we done threatening each other now? Assuming we are, Blondie, I take it you want to get Daisy to come down here and perform the ritual,” he says, his voice tight. He digs his hands into the pockets of his duster. “Aveline would probably come with, then. Shit, if they both come, why not make it a big damn reunion? Maybe we could get Fenris and Isabela. Carver. See if Choir Boy will leave his fancy palace.”

“We know where Merrill and Aveline are right now,” Anders says, urgency lacing his voice. “I’ve no idea where the others are. It would take far too long to find everyone. Write them, if you want. But there’s no time to gather everyone.”

“We can head to Griffon Wing Keep to use their ravens if you have messages to send,” Bethroot says as she walks back towards Rainier. She settles next to him, and without thinking, he slides his hand across her back to rest on her hip. He’s usually not one for public displays like this, but the conversation seems to warrant it.

“It would take two weeks to reach Griffon Wing Keep from Kirkwall, dear Inquisitor,” Vivienne says. “Do you really have that sort of time to spare?”

Rainier already knows the answer to that question. She absolutely doesn’t. Bethroot picks up her coffee and takes a sip before she answers. “Josephine’s wanted me to make a trip to Val Royeaux for sometime. Leliana, too, so I can get a sense of the Chantry there. Go to a service at the Grand Cathedral. I haven’t been back to the city in a while.”

Since she decided she would stop at nothing to save him from himself, Rainier thinks bleakly. He doesn’t relish the thought of being back in Val Royeaux, but he and Bethroot will be parted for long enough once this business is settled. Giving up the chance to spend time with her is out of the question, even if it’s in Val Royeaux.

“Are you absolutely sure this is what you want, Anders?” Bethroot asks.

Anders nods, staring down at the dirt on the ground, not looking anyone in the eye. Another thing they have in common, now. Rainier remembers all too well the pain at realizing he had a noose around his neck.

#

At least Varric has a room to himself in Griffon Wing Keep. It’s small, but there’s a lock on the door and he doesn’t have to share with Blondie. Tomorrow Varric, Vivienne, Rainier, and Cadash will head to Val Royeaux until Merrill’s answer to the raven arrives. Anders plans on staying in the Keep, thanks to Cadash making arrangements with Captain Rylen. Better that way. Anders would most likely never make it out of Val Royeaux alive.

Varric sits down at the small desk in the room and spreads out a piece of parchment. He fiddles with the ink pot and his quill before pushing up the sleeves to his tunic. He’s been a writer long enough to know that he’s stalling. And for what? A year ago, he wrote seven letters with the worst news possible. That Hawke was dead. And now he needs to tell his friends that Hawke’s actually not dead, but stuck in the Fade forever, and Blondie wants to have Justice join her there.

Running his hand through his hair, not tied back for once, Varric lets out a bitter laugh. He has a fucking good imagination, but not even he could dream up this shit. He runs his fingers over the feather quill before dipping it in the ink pot. After taking a deep breath, all the way down to his toes, he starts to write.

_Dear Daisy..._


	6. Conductor of Silence

“Here,” Cadash says, handing Varric her bow. “Your turn.”

Varric rolls his shoulders and looks at the target down below on the sand. Normally he doesn’t ever bother practicing with a regular bow. But Cadash discovered the soldiers at Griffon Wing Keep shoot from the ramparts down to the desert and wanted to try. His bolts would easily get lost in the sand, so an archaic bow and arrow it is.

“You realize people are going to say we’re fucking until the end of time, right?” Varric asks, drawing back the bowstring. Why anyone uses a bow when they could use a crossbow is beyond him. “You and Hero could get married, have a dozen half-dwarven babies, and people will _still_ think we’re fucking. All because Hero had a ‘toothache.’”

Cadash lets out a bark of a laugh and waves her hand. “Leave poor Thom alone. Do you really think he wanted to be at a private dinner with Empress Celene? After what he did in his army days? Of course he had a toothache.” She rests her hands on the rampart ledge, looking out over the desert. “I’m just grateful you were willing to come with me. The thought of having dinner alone with Celene and Briala? No thank you.”

“I aim to please,” Varric says, lining up his shot. Turned out Celene was a fan of his work. Not a bad way to spend an evening, giving an autograph to an Empress.

Cadash straightens. “Two people on horseback heading towards us. Think that might be them?”

Varric, Cadash, and Rainier arrived back at the Keep just yesterday, with Vivienne deciding to stay in Val Royeaux. “Let me take a look,” Varric says, handing Cadash back her bow. “The small one is definitely Merrill, but I don’t think that’s Aveline with her.”

She hands him the scouting glass from her belt and he brings it to his eye, trying not to squint. “Son of a bitch,” Varric says, hardly believing what he’s seeing. “That’s Junior.”

“Who?”

“Carver,” Varric says. “Hawke’s little brother. I haven’t seen him since the night Blondie blew up the Chantry.” His stomach tightens, thinking of the letter he wrote Carver a year ago, telling him about Hawke’s death. He never got a response.

Varric hands Cadash back her bow, and follows her down the rampart stairs, each one of his steps slower than the last. Around them, the Keep is busy with Inquisition soldiers all seemingly with a job to do. There’s been no sign of any idle soldiers that Varric can see.

To his left, the main gate of the Keep opens, and Merrill and Carver bring their horses inside. A stable boy takes the reins while they both unmount. “Varric!” Merrill cries, running over to him. She looks almost exactly the same as they day they met. Well, not exactly the same. Her vallaslin is slightly faded and there are lines at her eyes he’s not seen before. Even Carver with his baby face doesn’t look nearly as young with a full beard. Shit. When did they all get so _old?_

Varric quickly makes the introductions, and Cadash leaves to start prepping for the journey to Adamant so they can leave at first light tomorrow. “We can talk in my room,” Varric says, leading Merrill and Carver away from the bustle of the main keep. He waits for a comment from Merrill, maybe something about being able to talk anywhere, but it never comes. Maybe he has been gone too long.

Once the door to Varric’s room is safely closed behind them, he takes a look at his friends. They’re both dressed for traveling and Varric can’t see a single griffon on Carver’s chest piece. Must not be here as a Warden, then.

“Corff says he wants to rent out your room,” Merrill says as she sits on Varric’s bed.

Oh that double dipping bastard. He would do just that. “I’ve paid through the end of year forty-five, Daisy. If you see him give away my room, have Aveline arrest his ass.”

“Somehow I don’t think Aveline would appreciate you giving her orders,” Carver says with a snort as he leans against the wall. “Especially as someone who hasn’t lived in Kirkwall for some time.”

Varric shrugs, knowing Carver is most likely speaking the truth. “Speaking of, I assumed Aveline would come with you, Merrill.”

“Does that mean I’m not welcome?” Carver says casually. “Too bad, because I’m not leaving. Just lucky timing, really. I was in Kirkwall when Merrill got the letter. I said I’d go with.” He looks away, clearing his throat. “I thought I lost all my family. It will be good to say goodbye.”

A silence settles over the room as Varric thinks of his own family. Of the brother that still doesn’t recognize him after almost ten years. There’s a part of him that wonders if he did the right thing by asking Blondie to try to save Bartrand all those years ago. Bartrand might not have much of a life, but it’s _life._ And if Varric’s learned anything from Hawke, where there’s life, there’s hope.

“What will you do after?” Merrill asks. “Kirkwall could use your help, you know.”

Varric kicked a bit of rock with the toe of his boot. “Kirkwall has Choirboy, doesn’t it? What’s it need me for?”

And there it is. Kirkwall. Varric’s not been back in more than two years. Two years since he’s seen his brother. Two years since he’s gone to a meeting of the merchant’s guild. His investments and business opportunities have probably all gone to shit by now. But he’s picked up the pieces before, surely he can do it again. The real question he needs to ask himself is can he go back to a Kirkwall when Hawke will never return?

“It’s time to come home,” Merrill says and he can hear a hint of sympathy in her voice. That brings him up short. The last thing Varric wants is to be the subject of someone’s pity, even if it is a friend.

Maybe she’s right, though. Even if Hawke won’t be there, others will. If everything goes right with the ritual, Hawke won’t be alone in the Fade any more. Varric can finally let go, and maybe when he closes his eyes at night, he won’t see her face first thing any longer. Maybe he can move on simply by going home.

Besides, Kirkwall’s in his blood. He’s always known he’d go back someday. It’s just a little earlier than he planned. Well, Varric always did like to make an entrance. “You’re right,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I’ll head back with you.”

Merrill blinks those big green eyes at him. “Just like that? You mean it?”

“Just like that,” Varric says with a flourish and a bow. “This simple storyteller is ready to start a new tale.”

“Some of the streets have changed,” Merrill says, clapping her hands together. “I’ll be happy to share my ball of twine with you.”

Varric chuckles. Twine. Kirkwall will seem like home again before he knows it.

#

The temperature is almost bearable once the sun sets.

Rainier looks out over the desert sands, where he can just make out a pair of phoenixes fighting. The animals aren’t close enough to cause any worry, not yet at least. But he’ll keep an eye on them just the same. The last thing they need is to be caught unaware.

The gate of the keep is open tonight, letting in the cool desert breeze. He remembers charging and breaking the gate down himself. Thankfully, the Inquisition has reinforced the gate since then. No one man will be able to bring it down.

Behind him, there’s a bit of an impromptu feast. Soldiers and merchants and servants are all equal now as they eat salted beef and trenchers with so many dipping sauces he doesn’t even know them all.

Rainier picks up snippets of laughter and conversation. There’s an easy give and take between Varric and his friends that’s a pleasure to watch. It’s something that never quite formed between Bethroot’s companions. Too many people with their own agendas, himself included. Hiding in plain sight at first before the mask ripped away, leaving him with only penance to work toward.

Bethroot seems comfortable enough with them, but she’s always had that ability, to seamlessly fit in a group. It’s a talent he himself had long ago, one that withered from disuse, and frankly, he’s no desire to relearn that skill set.

So he stands at the edge of the group, looking out at the desert through the Keep’s open gate. He doesn’t expect anyone to pay him any attention, which is why Rainier’s startled when he notices Carver Hawke standing next to him.

“Warden,” Rainier says, his mouth suddenly dry. He hasn’t gone out of his way to avoid Hawke’s brother, but he certainly hasn’t sought him out. No doubt Carver knows his story, knows how long he posed as a Warden himself before the truth was revealed.

“Do you have a moment?” Carver asks.

It’s not like Rainier can say he’s busy, so he crosses his arms over his chest with a nod. “Something on your mind?” he asks, wondering if he’s about to be berated or scolded. Not that he’ll argue if that’s the case.

“Plenty,” Carver says with an easy nod of his head.

Rainier nods, impressed with how comfortable the warden seems with himself. Not many people can walk up to a stranger almost two decades their senior and have that comfortable way about them. For a moment, he thinks Carver means to start walking out into the desert, but Rainier’s grateful when they stay in place. He’s never been good at walking on sand.

“I’ve been in contact with Alistair,” Carver says, scratching the back of his neck. “He’s curious to know why you never joined the Wardens after the truth came out. I think most of us are, actually.”

The words are like a punch to the gut and Rainier feels the wind knocked out of him completely. Never once in all his time since his Judgment did he think that the Wardens would want anything to do with him. Most of the Wardens in Skyhold ignored him, except for a few dirty looks. Not like the Orlesian soldiers, who chided him every time he looked in their direction.

“Are you saying you wanted me to join?” Rainier asks, wishing he had a sword at his side, something to hold onto so that he wouldn’t fidget with his hands.

“Before you came out with the truth, Alistair planned on recalling you to Weisshaupt, to be an advisor,” Carver says. “He needed good men to help him-”

“There’s no one who would call me ‘good,’ Warden,” Rainier says, breathing heavily. He might do his best to do good now, but his past is littered with misdeeds that will haunt him for the rest of his life.

“None of us here would consider themselves good, Rainier,” Carver says with a bitter laugh. “Not a single one.”

Rainier thinks back to the week after his Judgment, when Bethroot asked him the very question he thinks Carver is about to ask. _Would he join the Wardens by choice?_ The Wardens helped him more than he can ever repay and part of him does wonder if he owes them his life. But he thinks of Bethroot, of the hope they have one day of walking away from the Inquisition and starting a family. How could he tell her after all this time that he’s changed his mind? That the Grey Wardens want him to be one of them and he needs to follow the call.

He simply can’t do that to her, not after everything he’s put her through already. His mind made up, Rainier says, “I think I know where this is going, Carver. I appreciate the thought more than I can say. But I’m not meant to be a Warden, not now. If things had been different, I would have proudly gone through the Joining.” He thinks back to his life when he met Warden Blackwall. A waste of life, he told Bethroot once. Not even the half of it. Even leaving that tavern with Warden Blackwall was an act of cowardice, not courage, thinking if he became a Warden he could finally stop running from the law.

“You’re sure?” Carver asks. “Alistair will be disappointed, but I understand. Now maybe this will convince him that after almost fourteen years, he can consider me a Senior Warden.”

“I’m sure,” Rainier says, his mind lingering on Bethroot. He’s never been more sure. “Will you be heading to Weisshaupt, then?”

Carver nods. “They’ve put out a call. And I’ve always wanted to see Weisshaupt. Once I’ve said my goodbyes to Hawke, I’ll take my leave.”

There are times Rainier wonders what sort of Warden he would have made. Much like he wonders how his career would have panned out if he refused Callier’s contract. Would he have been a Major by now? Whose side would he have chosen during the Civil War? The answer to that one is simple: whoever lined his pockets with the most gold. Funny how he barely has any gold to his name now and it doesn’t bother him in the least.

No response springs to mind, so Rainier looks back over the sand, where the phoenixes are nowhere to be found.


	7. Madman of Chaos

“And you’re sure you won’t need a mage?” Bethroot asks, looking at Varric and Carver. Funny how over the last few years, Bethroot’s come to depend on magic to keep her safe. Before the Conclave, she only worked and fought with other dwarves, and none of them had any sort of magic.

It’s a silly question to be asking now, minutes before she’s going to open a rift. Even if they wanted one, who would go? Vivienne stayed behind in Val Royeaux. Merrill is needed to perform the ritual and Anders… Well, this entire thing is for Anders.

And for Hawke, Bethroot reminds herself. If it were only for Anders’ benefit, she doubts she’d be helping. Though in a strange way, it’s thanks to Anders she’s at this point in her life. If he hadn’t started the mage rebellion how he did, the Conclave might never have been called. She might still be trying to get back into the Dasher’s good graces. Instead she’s hearing from sources that he’s ready to make his move on her life.

But that’s a worry for a different day.

“We’ll be fine,” Varric says with a wave of his hand. He walks up to Anders, and Bethroot’s surprised when he sticks his hand out. “Blondie, if this all goes according to plan, this is it. Make sure that spirit of yours takes care of Hawke, will you?”

“He will,” Anders says, shaking Varric’s hand.

Carver holds out his own hand. “She considered us brothers, you know, even if you two never made it official.”

“We didn’t need to,” Anders says, and Bethroot looks away at the emotion in his voice. “We were enough.”

Bethroot’s glad for Thom’s steady hand on her shoulder. Hard to watch these goodbyes she has no right to see. Thankfully she won’t be joining them in the Fade for their goodbye to Hawke.

“Well, that’s that,” Varric says, rubbing his hands together. “Sooner we get in there, the sooner Justice is with Hawke.”

“Tell Hawke I’m thinking about her, please,” Merrill says quietly as she stands with her hands behind her back.

“Here goes,” Bethroot says, her hand flexing almost out of instinct as Bethroot feels the pull of the Fade. Reaching forward, her hand curls into a fist as the anchor starts to glow, pulsing, surging up her arm. She grits her teeth, ignoring the pain as the rift bursts from her palm, creating the opening in the Fade.

Once Carver and Varric are inside, Bethroot slowly lowers her hand and stares at the rift she created. Next to her, Thom has his shield on his arm, but his sword sheathed, ready in case any demons see the rift as an invitation. “You’re in pain,” he says, looking down at her.

“Yes,” Bethroot says, her voice quiet so Merrill and Anders can’t overhear. Her fingers feel like they’re on fire and tears are in her eyes. This is worse than the last rift she opened, by far. Bad enough she decides right then and there that she won’t open another rift unless it’s a matter of life or death. Shaking out her fingers doesn’t help at all, so Bethroot brings her hand up protectively to her chest, and prays no demons come out of the rift. Holding her bow doesn’t seem possible right now.

“Thank you, Merrill. This means a great deal, what you’re doing,” Anders says, his voice rough.

“It would have been nice to have seen Hawke again, but this is more important,” Merrill says, taking a deep breath. “A Keeper’s responsibility.”

Anders lay on the ground, eyes closed, fingers intertwined over his stomach. He doesn’t move and it seems too much like a burial service for Bethroot’s taste. So she takes a step closer to Thom, and lets herself be comforted simply by his presence.

Merrill starts muttering in a language Bethroot doesn’t recognize, Elvhen, most likely. The moment she raises her staff over her head, Bethroot’s entire arm, the nerves from her marked hand to her shoulder, feel like they’re in a vice, ready to crush her bones into dust.

Letting out a gasp, Bethroot grabs Thom’s hand with her good one and squeezes as hard as she can. He was staring at Merrill as she wove magic around the area - even a dwarf like her can feel the echos - but immediately looks at Bethroot when she touches his arm.

“Merrill, you need to stop. Now,” Thom yells, and at that moment, he’s not her Thom, but Captain Rainier, a man people listened to and obeyed without question.

“I stop, both Anders and Justice will die,” Merrill says, turning her back on them as she raises an arm in the air. “So I can’t, you see.”

Bethroot does see. “I’ll get through this,” she says, clenching her jaw. She does not lie and say she’ll be fine. Right now, she worries her hand will never be _fine_ again. “I will.”

Thom nods, and Bethroot wants to look away as not to see the anguish on his face. She wraps her arm around his waist - for her comfort or his, she isn’t sure - and holds on to his belt. The pain is tolerable now, giving her a chance to blink away the tears in her eyes.

All she can do is hold on and wait.

#

“So this is the Fade?” Carver says dryly, looking around. “I thought it’d be taller.”

Varric lets out a bark of a laugh, slightly amazed that he’s able to laugh at all, today of all days. “The honest to goodness Fade,” Varric says. How does a dwarf like him get sent here so often? There should be some sort of limit. They seem to be in luck so far, no demons that he can see. But considering his luck lately? They’ll be knee deep in demons in minutes. And not even one of his knees. One of the Bull’s knees. “But let’s keep the talking down to a minimum until Justice is here. I’m really not in the mood to fight demons right now.”

“There she is,” Carver says, and a dirge lines his voice.

There’s no missing Hawke’s bright red hair from a distance. Her back is to the group as she sits on the ground, just where they left her. Varric’s stomach clenches in regret at the thought of Hawke spending the rest of her life here. No house. No food. No company of friends. And it’s all his fucking fault.

He should never have written her after Haven.

Hawke seems to sense their approach and jumps up off the ground. “You came back,” she says, a huge smile on her face. “And you brought Carver. I don’t believe it. This is _wonderful.”_

It’s that moment Varric thinks he’s going to be sick. She thinks she’s leaving with them. “Hawke…”

There’s a leather bound book in her hands, and she hugs it tight to her chest. One of her better traits is being able to read people. Always has been. “But neither of you look all that happy to see me. I’m not to come with you, am I?” she says, her voice shattering, and Varric has to close his eyes at the pain he hears.

“Justice will be here soon,” Varric says, struggling not to choke up. This is _Hawke_ and he’s never going to see her again after today. They’d never take a walk around Kirkwall or have a drink in the Hanged Man again. They’ll never gossip like fish wives again. “But first, up for some Kirkwall news?”

Hawke nods eagerly, and Varric realizes she must be starved for news of any kind. “Isabela and Fenris are still going strong-”

“I’m _so_ glad they take care of each other,” Hawke says. “I’ll confess I didn’t understand it at first, but if they’re happy, I’m happy.”

“Aveline and Donnic are going to adopt two little boys,” Varric says, thinking of the letter Merrill brought with her. That’s something that escaped his spy network. He had no idea Aveline and Donnic planned on going that route.

Hawke claps her hands together. “Two proud little soldiers like their parents. I can just picture them. Oh Varric, please, _please_ spoil them rotten. It’s what I would do if I had the chance.”

“You’ve got it, Hawke,” Varric says, his voice catching in his throat. Aveline and Donnic won’t know what hit them. Those kids will want for nothing. It’s the very least he can do.

“I thought Justice would be here by now,” Carver mutters.

“I heard that,” Hawke says, scolding just like an older sister. But Varric looks at her face and he can tell that she’s scared. He remembers that look, has seen it too many times over the course of their lives: during the Deep Roads expedition, entering the warehouse where they found Leandra, and realizing what Anders had done to the Chantry. Varric once hoped never to see that look again.

He should have known better.

#

Justice tries not to stir.

Through the filter of Anders’ dull senses he smells a mixture of herbs and honey, along with ash from the small fire. The air is hot, causing sweat to drip down his brow, even with the presence of a gentle breeze dancing around the camp.

Little things he will never again experience once he goes back to the Fade for good. Cool water running over his palms. Chocolate on his tongue. The moons rising while the stars come out. These things he has treasured over the years. First through Kristoff, and then with Anders.

Anders, who sacrificed so much so Justice could have a home. Who will he be when Anders is no longer there? This is the question that has plagued Justice since the night they made their decision, that Hawke cannot be left alone in the Fade. Of course she can’t. She is _Hawke._ She is love and anger and righteousness and fury and everything Justice and Anders have worked for since agreeing to join forces back at Vigil’s Keep.

They once swore Hawke would never be put in a cage, but that is exactly what has happened.

The thin line between justice and vengeance tangles for a moment and Justice forces himself to concentrate on the cloying scent in the air.

He will miss Anders. And how Anders misses Hawke. More than a year has passed since he’s seen her face. There are times he forgets how many freckles are on her nose, when once he counted them, during a time when they pretended all was right with the world, ignoring the plight of all the other mages in Kirkwall. Her eyes are green, he reminds himself, the same color as her father’s, so unlike her brother’s.

Anders is sleeping now and most nights, Justice would take the chance to search the Fade for Hawke. He hoped once they saw each other, he could find her again, but night after night he searched while the others were in Val Royeaux, with nothing to show for his efforts.

A feather from his mantle brushes his neck. Justice will even miss the feathers. Wishes he could somehow bring a handful into the Fade as remembrance. Feathers for his Hawke. An appropriate gift somehow.

The elf’s voice is loud now, more resonant. How this elf infuriated him over the years, with her mirror and her magic. The others never once suggested that _Merrill_ should be shut away in the Circle. Only Anders. Because he was willing to speak out and try to make people see.

They have done all they could for the mages. Now other mages will need to take up the call, to ensure the freedoms they’ve fought and bled for will never be taken away or taken for granted. He wishes he could see years into the future, the future they dreamed about with Hawke, when a mage child could be born without being taken from their family. When mages could fall in love and marry and simply go about their lives.

Now Justice waits to go back to the Fade, the place where everything started. But first Anders has to die. Justice has memory of Kristoff’s death and of the very brief moment Anders died. Neither hurt.

For Anders’ sake, Justice hopes Merrill is as skilled with a dagger as she is with magic.


	8. Forgewright of Fire

It takes longer than Varric expects for Justice to show up. So long he worries that maybe Blondie changed his mind. How could he not at least consider it? Varric gets wanting to die for love - Maker, he’s written enough tragedies in his life to be an expert - but actually witnessing it? He never would have thought Blondie selfless enough to do this for Hawke. No doubt he loves her, but to _die_ for her?

In the distance, Varric spies a form walking towards them. Guess they’ll find out soon enough.

“I don’t like being kept in the dark,” Hawke says softly, standing next to him. “Varric, what is going on?”

“Look, the Inquisitor was willing to open one more rift. Figured we had to put it to good use. She’s not going to open any more after this, so we won’t be able to see you again, Hawke.”

Varric thinks back to the first time he heard the name Hawke in Kirkwall. Fundraising for the expedition wasn’t going well, but he’d heard that Athenril had a mage working for her that worked wonders in convincing people to fork over their gold. He missed having someone to scheme with, someone to drink with late into the night planning out how to make a fortune. He had that with Bianca once, before sex and politics got in the way. And Varric found it again with Hawke. And now he’s never going to see her again after today.

This is harder than thinking she’s dead, he decides. At least when Varric thought she was dead, Hawke was at rest. Now he knows she’ll never be quite at peace, but at least she won’t be alone.

“There’s Justice,” Carver says. His voice gives Varric a start. He practically forgot the kid was here. Of course, he’s definitely not a kid any more and Varric wonders if he’ll ever truly see Carver as anything other than Hawke’s little brother. As unfair as it is, somehow he doubts it.

Justice is in Kristoff’s form, a shield strapped to his back, and a sword at his hip. “So you really went there, Hawke? You and Justice?” Varric asks. He’s not hurt she never told him, not really. After all, he never told her the whole story about Bianca.

“Anders said they’re too entwined to ever be separated. How can I not love them both?”

He coughs once, wondering how Hawke’s going to react once she realizes that separation is actually their goal today. Somehow he thinks she’s not going to be happy about it.

“Hawke,” Justice calls out.

Varric watches Hawke’s face carefully as she meets Justice’s gaze. The slight smile on her lips tell him everything he needs to know. Anders has done horrible things in his life. Fuck, they all have. But in the end, in the last meaningful act of his life, Blondie will have done some good. It doesn’t wipe the slate clean, nothing will. But Hawke won’t spend the rest of eternity by herself. Maybe that will mean something to the Maker in the end.

Hawke walks up to Justice, hands out. The spirit reaches out as well, and their hands pass through each other. “I hoped it might have changed,” Hawke says with a whimper, her voice breaking Varric’s heart. “I suppose that was too much to ask.”

“Anders wants you to know how much he loves you, Hawke,” Justice says quietly, soft enough that Varric needs to strain to hear. He knows it’s none of his Maker-damned business, but some day, maybe if Varric is lucky enough to grow old and grey, _The Tale of the Champion_ will deserve an epilogue. And he wants to make sure to get it right.

Her hand goes to her throat. “What do you mean?” she asks and there is fear in her voice. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You cannot leave the Fade-”

The fear in her voice turns to anger. _Good_ , Varric thinks. Anger’s better than fear any day. “I know this,” Hawke snaps. “I don’t need you coming all the way here, risking people’s lives, to remind me.”

Her tirade doesn’t seem to slow Justice down in the slightest. “My presence is what keeps Anders from joining you in the Fade, Hawke. He would join you in a heartbeat if he could.”

The anger dissolves from her face at once. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone,” Hawke whispers. “There are so many things to learn, yet I’m tethered to this spot.” She holds up the leather bound book in her hand. “This is Anders’ journal, I’m sure of it. Maybe that’s why I can’t stand to leave too long. I’m hoping he’ll come and find it some day.”

“Hawke,” Justice says. “Anders cannot join you. But I can. I will.”

Varric tries not to fidget as he sees the realization dawn on Hawke’s face. This scene is not for him. He thought he wanted to witness this, but now, seeing the agony on her face… Any possible epilogue he might write someday isn’t worth this.

“No,” she says, a hand over her mouth. “Oh Maker, Merrill’s performing that damn ritual, isn’t she? You’re not really here, are you, Justice? No.” Hawke turns to Varric, and he doesn’t resist as she grabs the lapels of his duster. “You need to go back. You need to go back right now. You need to tell Merrill to stop this. Varric, please.”

“Hawke-”

“Don’t _Hawke_ me,” she tells Justice with a snarl. “How could you agree to this? How can you just let him _die_?”

“This was no easy choice, Hawke,” Justice says. “Anders’ time is short. You know this.”

Hawke shakes her head, like she simply doesn’t accept what Justice is saying. Varric wants to reach out, to give her some semblance of support, offer a hand to hold, a shoulder to cry on, or at least a fucking handkerchief for the tears that he’s sure are to come.

Justice doesn’t seem to be deterred. “Nightmares have plagued him since you first met Corypheus, worse than he ever told you. Banishing the Demon Army should have released him from the false calling. It has not.”

That catches Hawke’s attention. “Carver?”

“The drums have stopped for me, at least,” Carver says. “If Anders is really hearing the Calling…”

“The mages are free, Hawke. Anders is ready to say goodbye to this world if he is never to see you again,” Justice says, taking a step closer to Hawke. “He does not wish you to be alone any longer than you have to be.”

And that’s when the tears start. Hawke places a hand on her stomach, bending over as if in pain. “Why couldn’t I have just died?” she says so softly Varric can barely hear her. “I should have died. I was ready to die.” She sinks to her knees, and Varric can’t stand to leave her like this. Carver must have the same thought, because both of them are at Hawke’s side in an instant. “If I was dead, he could have just moved on with his life.”

“Don’t say that, Hawke,” Varric says, putting his hand on her shoulder. She reaches up and grips his hand like a vice, as if it’s the only thing keeping her together. “Blondie’s being about unselfish as a person can get.”

“He’s never thought about himself,” Hawke says, wiping tears away from her eyes. Varric knows that’s a damn lie, but he also knows this isn’t the time or place to call her out on that fact. Not when he’s never going to see her again after today. “The mages always came first. Always.”

Varric catches Carver’s eye, who simply shakes his head. So Carver isn’t buying Hawke’s revisionist history, either. No wonder they say love makes fools out of people. Look at Hawke making Anders out to be some sort of saint, when the truth is far more complicated.

She squeezes his hand and uses his shoulder to pull herself up off of the ground. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I’ll be okay.” Hawke turns to Justice. “And is this what you want? You’ve been out in the world for so long, to be trapped back in the Fade...”

“I would be here with you. That is enough,” Justice says. From the way Hawke smiles, Varric wonders if that’s the closest Justice ever gets to ‘I love you.’

“It will be good to have you near,” Hawke says, almost shyly, which makes Varric pause. There are many words he can use to describe Hawke, but _shy_ is not one of them. “I’ve searched for you, you know. I kept hoping I might find you when Anders was asleep.”

“I searched as-”

Justice falls to his knees as Hawke lets out a small yelp of surprise. Varric’s heart seems to be beating outside of his chest as he realizes what has happened.

_Anders is dead._

And suddenly Justice looks different. It’s like Varric didn’t realize the spirit had been slightly transparent before, but now he looks solid, sturdy. Ready to take on the Fade with Hawke.

“Justice,” Hawke says so quietly Varric can barely hear her over the sounds of the Fade. The spirit says nothing and Varric starts to worry. What if their theories were wrong? What if Justice isn’t Justice any more without Anders? How can Hawke bear to lose two lovers in one day? “Justice, please say something.”

In response, his eyes still staring at the ground, Justice holds out his hand, an offering. Hawke looks at Varric, the fear back in her eyes, and he knows she’s having the same worries he is. Varric nods, trying to be encouraging and not revealing his own doubts.

Hawke takes a breath and places her hand in Justice’s and their fingers lock together.

Varric lets out a breath in relief as Hawke helps Justice up off of the ground, tears in her eyes. Once he’s standing, she doesn’t hesitate, and throws herself in Justice’s arms. “We will mourn him together, Hawke,” Justice says, stroking her hair.

It doesn’t feel like a moment Varric should intrude on, yet with everything done, with everything set as right as he can make it, it’s time to say goodbye. For real this time. The sooner he and Carver get out of the Fade, the better. And then they can do right by Anders’ body.

“Hawke, it’s time. Junior and I need to get out of here before a demon decides to see what all the fuss is about. My guess is Spirit Blondie’s transformation won’t go unnoticed,” Varric says, his hand reaching back simply to rest on Bianca, to have that sturdiness beneath his hands.

“Of course,” Hawke says. “I don’t want either of you in danger. Thank Merrill, for us, Varric. You know she’ll be hurting.” She walks over to Carver, looking older than he has a right to look. “I’m so sorry to leave you alone, Carver.”

“I’m not alone, sister. I have the Wardens, something I never thanked Anders for, not really,” Carver says. “I have memories for the good times. Of you, mother and father.” He takes a breath and his voice shakes slightly. “Of Bethany.”

“Maker go with you, Carver,” Hawke says, bringing him in for a hug.

Varric wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his duster, hoping no one notices what he’s doing. Once Hawke steps back from Carver, she turns her gaze on him, and he can’t help but think of the first time he saw that look pointed at him. If only he knew just how much his life would change because of this woman… “Hawke.”

“We’re both awful at goodbyes,” Hawke says, getting down on a knee so they’re the same height. “We can’t seem to do them properly, can we?”

“This is the real one, though,” Varric says, leaning forward and hugging her with every ounce of energy he has. “All the others were rough drafts. This is the version going to the publisher.”

“I don’t think any more of my story needs to be told,” Hawke says, standing up. He wants to reach for her hand, to do _something_ , but he needs to let her go. But her words take root. He will never write another word about Hawke. If that’s what she wants, the very least Varric can do is respect that. “Goodbye, Varric.”

“So long, Hawke,” Varric says with a touch of his finger to his brow. He takes a breath, and he and Carver start walking towards the rift waiting to take them back to the real world.

And somehow Varric doesn’t look back.


	9. Watchmen of Night

“Did it work?”

Varric ignores Rainier’s question and looks over at the Inquisitor. With a twirl of her hand and a grimace on her face, the rift closes behind him. “Any demons?”

“No,” Rainier says. “They seemed to leave well enough alone for once.”

Varric nods, his eyes falling on Anders’ body, covered up with a cloth. “Justice is there with Hawke. Everything went according to plan.”

“First time for everything,” Bethroot says, and even Varric can hear the sadness in her voice.

Her hand finds his and Varric gives it a squeeze. Hawke might not be dead, not really, but she’s gone, lost to him forever.

He needs a damn drink.

Funny how time passes in the Fade. It didn’t feel like Varric was there for more than an hour. When they left this morning, the sun could barely been seen over the mountains. Now it’s dusk, purple-red clouds covering the sky.

There’s one thing he needs to do before anything else. Merrill is sitting on a log, knees hugged tightly to her chest, staring at Anders’ covered body. Varric walks up to her slowly, not surprised when she makes no notice of him.

“Daisy,” Varric says quietly. That gets her out of her stupor and she looks at him, eyes wide. “Hawke and Justice wanted to thank you.”

“Did they?” Merrill asks, but her voice rings hollow. “That’s good.”

When Merrill doesn’t launch into a long winded apology of some sort, Varric sits next to her on the log. Carver is busy explaining what happened to Cadash and Rainier, leaving him free to comfort his friend. “You helped them,” Varric says softly. “Justice is back in the Fade and Hawke isn’t alone any more.”

Her hand goes to rest on her dagger, which has already been cleaned, not a trace of blood on the blade. “I want to believe that,” Merrill says. “It’s what I’ve been telling myself, it’s the Keeper’s responsibility. Not that I’m a Keeper, or that we’re a clan, but sometimes it feels like we are, even when we’re all apart, and I’m babbling like a child now, aren’t I?”

As carefully as Varric can, he takes Merrill’s hand off of her dagger and simply holds it, thinking of the twine, and all those years of paying off the Carta to leave her alone as she walked through the streets of Kirkwall. “We’re family, Daisy. Nothing’s ever going to change that.” Merrill looks like she wants to say something, but he squeezes her hand. “Nothing.”

They’re both quiet as Carver and Rainier set up the funeral pyre. Both men work with an efficiency that’s unsettling to Varric, like they both have far too much experience with death. Knowing them, they probably do.

Cadash leads a prayer, something from the Canticles of Exaltations, and asks if anyone wants to say a few words. Varric’s not surprised when everyone stays silent.

And when Cadash lights the pyre, Merrill leans against him, resting her head against his. Varric might have lost Hawke today, but he still has his family.

He’ll need to remember that.

#

There’s another round of goodbyes the next morning. Varric sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. His whole damn life has been one goodbye after another lately. He’s getting pretty damn sick of it, to be honest. Well, at least he won’t be saying goodbye to everyone this time.

“So it’s true?” Cadash asks, holding a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. It’s early enough in the morning that Varric knows she’s only half awake. Without that coffee, she might as well be sleeping. “You’re not coming back to Skyhold?”

Varric nods, wishing the rumor mill wasn’t so damn efficient. Cadash has been a good ally over the last two years. She deserved to hear the news directly from him. “It’s time,” Varric says. “My holdings in Kirkwall have got to be an absolute mess after all this time. I’m ready to be a businessman again.”

“As opposed to the leader of a spy network or a simple storyteller?” Cadash asks, a smile on her face.

“Madam, I will always be a storyteller at heart. Nothing will ever change that,” Varric says, his mind churning. Cadash’s story isn’t over, not yet, he thinks. But maybe he could help it along. She’ll need a home someday, somewhere other than Skyhold. And Hightown has a lot of new homes, thanks to the reconstruction efforts… Varric pushes the thoughts away. He can muse on them later. It’s a long way back to Kirkwall.

“Keep in touch,” Cadash says, punching his shoulder.

“Hey, we have a joint business venture, remember. That practically makes us family. Shit, that does make us family,” Varric says with a laugh.

Cadash starts to laugh as well, and when Varric holds out his hand to properly say goodbye, she pushes it out of the way and throws her arms around his neck. Varric returns the hug, thinking how nice it is to actually hug another dwarf, and not have to stretch.

With a nod, she heads over to Rainier, who’s standing by the wagon. Varric turns his attention to Carver. “You off to Weishaupt?” Varric asks.

“I’ll be going to Val Foret with Rainier, then off to the Anderfels,” Carver says. “Make sure you get Merrill back to Kirkwall safely.”

“Have no intention on doing anything else. Good luck to you, Ju- Carver,” Varric says. The nickname doesn’t seem appropriate any longer, not now. He’s his own man. It’s far past time for Varric to admit it.

They shake hands, and Varric heads over to his traveling partner. “You ready to begin?” Merrill says, putting her weight onto her staff. “We’ve a long way ahead of us.”

Varric looks to the Northeast. Miles and miles away, across the Waking Sea, Kirkwall waits to welcome him home.

Taking a breath, he pats Bianca, strapped securely to his back. “I’m ready.”

#

The warmth from her coffee cup seems to dull the pain in Bethroot’s palm. It’s upgraded to a throbbing pain, always there, just underneath the skin. She decides to pin her hopes that it’s simply because she recently opened a rift. Maybe in a day or two, she’ll feel better.

Somehow, Bethroot doesn’t believe it, but she needs to try.

Before long, Thom is at her side. He’s ready to say goodbye and her heart clenches. She’s afraid for him, more afraid than she wants to admit. Anger is a weapon, and he’s given his men so many over the years. She dreads to think of those weapons turned against him.

But Bethroot refuses to sulk, not when she’s already said her piece and had her advice pushed gently to the side. In the end, Thom will do what he feels is right, and that’s one of the reasons why she loves him so much.

“Bethy…” he says, looking down at her.

She forces a smile on her face, knowing to do anything other than that will cause tears to be in her eyes, and she will not hold him back. Not when this is so important to him. “I’ve a letter for you,” Bethroot says, taking out a folded letter, one with her Inquisitor seal, and placing it in his hand.

“A letter?” Thom asks, confusion in his voice. “What sort of letter are you writing before I’ve even left?”

The guards are watching them, and Aldrien, the wagon driver, looks far too interested in hearing what they have to say. So Bethroot takes Thom’s hand, leading him behind the wagon where they might have at least the illusion of privacy.

“It’s the type of letter you’ll want to only read when you’re alone,” Bethroot says, a real grin crossing her face this time. She thinks of the letter, how she wrote things she wants to do to him, things she wants him to do to her, and how they’ll celebrate once they’re reunited. It’s a very thorough letter.

She bites her lip when his thumb passes over a slightly damp spot on the letter. Giving her a curious look, Thom brings the letter up to his nose, taking a sniff. “Oh, you little minx,” Thom mutters, tucking the letter in the inside of his gambeson. “That will certainly give me something to remember you by.”

“Exactly,” Bethroot says.

She waits for him to lean down or pick her up or something so they can kiss. Thom does neither of those things, getting down on one knee and bringing her in close. “No one can see us this way,” he says, pushing a few strands of hair out of her face. It’s gotten longer, her hair. Not long enough for a ponytail yet, but plenty long to annoy her when it’s in her face.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispers, leaning in, and pressing her lips against his. She misjudged, and ends up with more mustache than lip, but she doesn’t care, not in the slightest.

“I’ll write when I get to Val Foret,” Thom says, and Bethroot doesn’t flinch as he digs his fingers into her hips. “Should take me two days or so on horseback.”

Another smile crosses her lips. “There should be a letter waiting there, too,” she says with laugh.

“So this is to be my legacy?” Thom asks with a long suffering sigh. “I can see it now. Thom Rainier dies after reading letters. What Orlais couldn’t finish, the love of his life does.”

Instead of answering, Bethroot kisses him, urgently, fiercely, wanting to brand lips with her own. They’re both practically panting when they break apart. “You best get on the road when there’s plenty of light,” she says softly. “I love you, Thom.”

He kisses her cheek, his beard tickling her skin, but this time, she doesn’t giggle or laugh. “I love you, too, Bethy,” he says no louder than a whisper.

Without another word, they walk to the extra horse they brought with them from the Keep. Thom does one last check of his saddle bag and hoists himself up. He towers over her on the horse, and Bethroot reaches up for him. They clasp hands for just a moment, and then he’s on his way.

When he doesn’t look back, Bethroot shakes out her hand, ignoring the pain as best she can. Then Aldrien helps her into the wagon, where she’ll ride on the way back to Skyhold, with no companions by her side.

#

_Time goes on._

_No longer tethered to a singular spot, Hawke starts to explore and starts to discover the wonders of the Fade. Learning for learning’s sake becomes her true joy._

_She doesn’t even notice that she does not age. Or if she does, it’s slow enough where she sees no difference._

_Every so often she finds a friend when she least expects them, passing their way through the Fade on the way to their final resting place. Each brief reunion gives her more joy than she can imagine._

_As the centuries pass, Justice remains by her side._

_And Hawke is never alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! And a big thanks to jegaphone for taking on the beta reading duties. :D


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